Ooh Charles will return to Spain soon! Margaret has given him some sound, sage advice, that he should heed. I have no doubt that Charles will at the very least have both an heir and a "spare" to shore up the succession. Lovely chapter!
An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
I love Margaret, she’s so sensible. Charles should return to Spain and make things right with Anne.
24th of February, 1525.
Dijon, Duchy of Burgundy. 24th of February, 1525.
The cold seeped into his bones, chilling down to his deepest layers. Francis I of France observed the land around him, seated atop his horse. The city that he wished to defend had been built amongst plains of green land, standing between two converging rivers, the Suzon and the Ouche.
Despite the cold weather, he was sweating, almost boiling under his heavy armour. He shouldn’t be nervous, he should have faith in the Lord to carry him through this, but he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t, because, in truth, the Lord didn’t seem to be on his side. Not after the English laid waste to his country, after the Imperial armies marched closer and closer to their objective, after he all but lost Milan. The Lord was not on his side. No one was.
He gripped his sword tightly, flexing his fingers. His hand felt numb and he rubbed his wrist, trying to force blood to it. He could feel the eyes of his men on him and he did not allow himself to show even an ounce of weakness, even under the vizor of his helm. The Lord might not have been on his side, but France counted on him. He was still Francis of the House of Valois, of the Capetian Dynasty. He was still a King and none, not even Charles or Henry, could take that from him.
He made a sudden movement of his arm, gesturing to his commanders and the army began to move, meeting the forces bearing the Imperial Eagle with their heads straight. His heart raced inside of his chest. This was not his first battle, but both armies were gigantic. Francis himself had nearly twenty thousand men stationed outside the city, waiting for the Emperor’s force for nearly a week. This would be bloody, many lives would be lost, but if he had just one decisive victory, just one, he could perhaps change the course of the war.
Men come from all directions and he can’t tell who was foe and who was friend. He tried to defend himself, knowing a Frenchman would never dare attack his King, and it seemed o have worked. His blade sliced against necks and slivers of unprotected skin, those brave enough to try and take him out grunting in pain as they fall on the ground. His horse walked around almost madly, trampling the unsuspecting wounded underneath, and he continued to attack as much as he could.
Sweat clung to his neck and chest. He thought about many things. His mother, his sister, his children. Francis made a vow to himself that he’d find a new wife when he returned to Paris, so there would be a new Queen in the land and his boys could have a mother to love and care for them.
One man grunted and screamed as he fell, brandishing a rusted dagger and Francis only realized what he had done when his horse shrieked, rising on its hind legs to escape the assault. The man had been clever and the beast took weak steps forward, hot blood spurting from the wound in its neck as Francis raced to undo his bindings and jump off before he was brought down along with it.
He was too late. Francis fell to the hard ground with a thud, the air knocked out of his chest as he felt the entire weight of his armour crushing him. The bright blue sky burned his eyes as he looked up and he shrieked, his cries of pain drowned out by the battle that still raged on.
Hot white pain blinded him when he tried to move his legs, slick and thick blood trickling down his shins. If he was lucky, the limb was only broken. If not, he shuddered to even think it.
A large form covered the sun above him and he opened his eyes, finding a smirking face staring down at him. He didn’t know the man, but he could see that his armour bore the double-headed eagle of the Holy Roman Empire. Francis shifted, raising his chin to speak, but before he could, the man above him pressed a blade to his neck.
“King Francis,” he murmured in accented French. “You’re my prisoner now.”
Is this a reference to Avatar the Last Airbender?
I wonder if anything will change with Francis being captured at what is arguably french territory when compared to OTL imperial pavia
Not gonna lie, when I was writing this, I did picture Suki in my head.
Well Francis has lost this battle, and with it, I suspect the war... Great chapter, it'll be interesting to see what terms are presented to Francis...
Oh shit, Francis got got! Hopefully Charles’s terms aren’t too severe. At the very least we know that Francis won’t be marrying Eleanor here, but I’m at a loss for who he could marry instead if Charles chooses to tie him with a Habsburg bride.
Also very interested to see how Anne reacts to this, considering her connections to the French court.
Also very interested to see how Anne reacts to this, considering her connections to the French court.
Charles' sister Elizabeth, Dowager Queen of Denmark is still kicking around.
Ooo now that’s interesting proposition. I quite like it, actually.
15th of April, 1525.
Nancy, Lorraine. 15th of April, 1525.
His fingers turned lax, unable to hold on anymore, and the letter fell to his desk with a soft whoosh. His heart seemed to stop in his chest, his throat tying itself into knots and he dragged a hand down his face, feeling his skin clammy and cold to the touch. He stood up in trembling legs and walked away from his desk, needing to take a moment to think before he did something rash.
Antoine led himself to the window closest to him, which was turned to the gardens of his residence. He could see some of his courtiers walking between the bushes of flowers, blooming now with the arrival of spring, talking amongst themselves. They didn’t seem to know what had happened, how everything had changed now. How long would it take for the information to arrive for them? Certainly, not long. Perhaps, even by the end of the day, the whole of his people would be aware of the news from the battlefront.
King Francis, his longtime ally and friend, had been captured by the Emperor, along with many others from the nobility and his government. Antoine was supposed to have joined the King of France on the battlefield, but pressing matters at home had forced his return and that of his men. He wondered if things might have gone differently had he been there. Perhaps, they would have won and his dear friend would not have been so humiliated.
Antoine was no fool. He knew what that meant. Charles of Austria would soon claim the Duchy of Burgundy for himself, as had been his wish, and it would be practically impossible to stop him. Until he did, he would hold Francis as his prisoner and there would be none to put a stop to the Emperor’s ambition, as well as that of the English King. If his spies were to be trusted, Henry Tudor was now running amok in the French countryside, laying siege to important cities and burning everything he could not hold.
He wondered how long it would take for the rose and the eagle to turn to him and his lands. Lorraine stood between Burgundy and the Low Countries. The Emperor’s great-grandfather had once tried to conquer the country to unite his holdings into one single country. What was there to say that the man would not be the same?
His thoughts were distracted by the sight of his little son and heir running through the gardens, laughing. It brought a smile to his face. François was seven now and as active as one can be, always ditching his studies to ride or play. Nicholas, his second ran behind him, and little Anna toddled after both. She was almost three and her brown hair had been brushed, though not covered with a cap.
The sight of his children brought a smile to his face and he watched them play in the gardens, their guardians close behind. It felt good to watch them, innocent and happy, unaware of how the entire world had just changed with the fate of one simple battle. He wanted them to remain like that, but he knew it would be hard. François would one day become the Duke of Lorraine and he wouldn’t be a boy forever. He’d have to grow and be a man.
Antoine continued to watch them for a few minutes, observing François step near the plants and touch the flowers with his clumsy little fingers. He seemed interested in plucking them away, squeezing them to see what would happen. He was too far to see or even hear exactly what was happening, but he saw François’ arms moving around, almost like he swatting something away, the red petals falling to the ground in heavy clumps. One of the guardians, a knight Antoine knew well, ran to him and it was at that moment that the Duke realized his son was crying. Maybe even screaming, at the way his mouth opened.
He stepped back from the window, surprised by the sight. François’ face was a deep shade of red and more of those accompanying the children ran to him, some even picking up Nicholas and Anna in their arms to keep them away. An instinct grew inside of him, a feeling low on his stomach that something was not right, and the Duke turned away, running out of his door.
It must have taken at least five minutes for him to arrive at the gardens, with the many doors and people standing in his way. When he arrived, it was to a commotion and a crowd surrounding the place where his son was when he last saw him, someone screaming for a physician.
“Move away!” he demanded, pushing two of his courtiers out of his path. They quickly did so when they realized who it was and Antoine’s heart stopped when he saw François on the ground, his face swollen beyond belief. His skin was red, covered with every passing minute with growing hives and his hands were curled as he scratched furiously at his face and neck. “My boy…”
He kneeled to the ground next to him, touching his face hesitantly, and saw one of his knights on the other side of François, trying to help him breathe with comforting touches to his head. “It’s alright, help is on its way,” the knight whispered, softly.
“We must take him to his rooms,” Antoine murmured, already moving to curl one hand under his son’s knees. François’ face was growing more and more red, to the point that it almost seemed purple, and he scratched desperately at his throat as his mouth parted to let in weak wheezing breaths. “He can’t breathe! Something is stuck on his airway!”
“He hasn’t eaten since lunch,” a woman said behind him. “He was fine until he played with the flowers.”
Antoine picked François’ up and his eyes rolled to the back of his head with the sudden movement. As he swayed precariously in his father’s arms, his hand relaxed and a small crushed bee fell to the ground.
--
Thouars, France.
“I want Thomas Wyatt to travel to Toledo,” Henry said, holding the reins of his horse with one hand. Next to him, Charles Brandon nodded, listening intently, while others did as well, accompanying the King as he triumphantly rode into the city. He had taken it only days earlier and left earlier that morning to hunt and see the countryside, resting before continuing on through France. “I will see England represented in the peace talks, no matter what.”
“Of course, Sire,” Charles answered, his horse only slightly behind Henry’s.
“Tell Wyatt to demand the lands of Normandy, Anjou, Maine, Berry and Poitou,” Henry continued to instruct, even when they arrived at the courtyard. He dismounted and handed his reins off to a groom without even seeing who it was, walking inside the castle. Charles ran to catch up to him, two of Henry’s other generals coming as well. “It means we will seem more reasonable once we agree to simply Normandy, Anjou and Maine.” Henry smiled at the thought. He had been taught that by his grandmother once and despite all his misgivings with My Lady, she had always been quite the politician.
“Yes, Sire,” said someone beside him, already preparing mentally to write a letter for Thomas.
“And I want a marriage arranged for one of my children,” continued Henry. “Preferably Mary with the Dauphin, or the Prince of Asturias.” Mary was older, so it made sense to arrange her marriage before John, or even Edward.
“Of course, Sire.”
Henry dismissed them after that, wanting to spend some time alone. He had to get out of his sweaty clothes and perhaps take a nap before supper. He didn’t know the castle of Thouars well, having been there for less than three days, and it was quick to become lost in the grey mazes of it, especially when one refused to ask for directions out of stubbornness.
He scowled and walked through the corridors with open eyes, trying to see if he remembered this portrait, or if this guard seemed rather familiar. Henry tried to remain with a neutral expression, not wanting to truly seem lost to anyone watching him, but the saucy giggle that came behind him, accompanied by a thick French-accented voice told him otherwise, “Are you lost, Votre Majesté?”
He turned and saw a woman behind him. He barely recognized her, only because he had seen her on his first day, as the wife of the Viscount of Thouars. When they took the city, the news of the Viscount’s death at Milan had already arrived, but until his son returned to take his rightful place, Luisa Borja remained in her place as lady of the house.
She curtsied before him, a smile curling her pink lips. She was a woman of diminutive stature, with brown curls peeking out of her French hood. When she rose from her curtsy, her brown eyes looked at Henry with bold defiance.
He smiled, knowing his manners well. “What makes you think that, Madame de Valentinois?”
Luisa stepped closer, her pale hands holding tightly to a book of hours. “You seem rather interested in this corridor, considering you have passed here thrice already though, of course, I should not assume anything from such a Conqueror.” She came impossibly close to him, blinking softly as she looked at him through her long brown lashes. “Are you lost, King Henri?”
He shook his head, feeling desire tug low in his loins. Luisa was beautiful, with a slight flush to her cheeks, and she seemed intent on provoking him. He was away from his wife and she was a widow. Who’d blame them for taking comfort in each other?
“Not at all, Madame,” he murmured, offering her his arm. “Though I’d be most pleased if Madame would accompany me on a walk in the gardens.”
Luisa smiled, exposing her impossibly white and perfect teeth, before linking her arm with his. “Of course. I must entertain my guests, mustn’t I?”
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@Awkwardvulture told me that the first scene wasn't too graphic for ah.com so if it is, it's his fault, I swear
Poor Francois! Is he dead, or can you not confirm that yet? Also, I am very certain that Henry and Luisa are going to start an affair.
He's dead. He would need modern medicine to survive such a reaction and sadly, that's not been invented yet.
Awww not little Francois 😢, so tragic... Very shrewd deal proposal on Henry's part, I think it might just work. As for his little fling, well him having a bastard with a Borgia would be scandalous. Great chaper!